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TVSTRANGERTHINGS
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KIROKAZE
if i look back, i am lost
h
Noah Kahan
oozey mess
gracie abrams
Cosmic Funnies
Discoholic 🪩
almost home
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Stranger Things
noise dept.
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
RMH
The Bowery Presents
PR's Tumblrdome
seen from United States
seen from Ecuador
seen from Türkiye
seen from Vietnam
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Netherlands
seen from Switzerland
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Brazil
seen from Brazil
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@hogans-heroes
Welcome!
My Blog Navigation:
📖 • My AO3
💫 • My MOTA AU Masterlist
📝 • My MOTA Fic
💭 • My MOTA headcanons
🛍️• MOTA stickers/magnets
📨 • Asks
PSA: Please don’t tag things meant for me as Hogan’s Heroes, or it will go in the actual show tag. TY!
𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝒻𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓋𝒾𝑒𝓌𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒜𝓊𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃 🤍
𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒷𝑜𝓎 🥹
𝑒𝓃𝒿𝑜𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝓅𝒽𝑜𝓉𝑜𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝑒 🥰
𝒾 𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊 🩵
(𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 1)
Welcome to the MOTA Hope Weekend 2026: Day 1
Welcome to this event first day. We're excited to see the hopeful fan works start to come in! Here's the hope-set for today:
Art: The Sun - Edvard Munch (1911)
Thorpe Abbots - Shirt - A letter arrives
"I don't want this moment to end." - "I forgive you." - "How did you ...?"
Song: Miyazaki - Paris Paloma
Artwork 1 by @beepbeepcomeatmebruv
Artwork 2 by @swifty-fox
Artwork 3 by @sorgenfalter
Artwork 4 by @freebooter4ever
Remember, you decide how you want to take inspiration from the hope set and which day you post. You can also share any medium inspired by the theme hope independent of the sets.
Tag the artists if you use their art as inspo, and remember to tag @mota-collab and please use the #MOTA HOPE 2026 tag under your post to make sure we see it and can reblog.
Also, if you're writing a fic and posting it on AO3, please add it to our collection - MOTA Hope Weekend 2026!
𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘧 "𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴"
𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘴 𝘣𝘺 𝘬𝘺𝘭𝘦 𝘬𝘢𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯.
You're right, Lieutenant Macon. This is gonna be close. But it's not impossible.
bonus:
Will there be a final chapter of the age regression fic? I desperately want to know how it ends!
Hello darling! YES there definitely will be and I’m actively working on it, I’m SO sorry it’s taking me so long, things have been crazy for months and I’ve hardly been able to write any fic, trying to get back into it 🥹 thank you for the ask, I hope to reward you soon.
i love to have a hobby
my hobby is looking at two guys and saying Now whats all this then
who else just really really loves talking about gale and john from the show masters of the air
the rpf was there. it didn’t change anything. it didn’t save anyone. there were just too many forces against it. but it still matters that the rpf was there.
and it was fine.
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Masters of the Air (TV 2024) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Gale “Buck” Cleven/John Clarence “Bucky” Egan Characters: John Clarence “Bucky” Egan, Gale “Buck” Cleven Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Forced Abortion, Past Abortion, Blood, Child Loss, Angst with No Happy Ending, Alpha John Clarence “Bucky” Egan, Omega Gale “Buck” Cleven, Angst and Feels Summary:
They’re talking about trying for a child, him and John. Bucky’s all excited about the idea, his big alpha energy close to bouncing off the walls just thinking about it. It has its appeal, Gale will admit. The thought of a little baby lying in his alpha’s arms, seeing John coo over their little features brings a smile to his lips and warmth to his heart. John’s excited, tells everyone they meet that they’ll be trying for their first soon, now that they’re back from the war all settled down and home again. Gale smiles and nods alongside him but deep down there’s a fear. Bucky doesn’t know. And Gale doesn’t know how to tell him.
Who fucking approved this
I literally can’t even speak
Via @helenacard on instagram
The irony of me seeing this just as we drive past a billboard for Air Force recruiting saying “explore your opportunities” takes my breath away.
can I have prompt 17 for caustin 👉👈
¹⁷⁾ a fractured pelvis – clegan
Buck flew a plane like some guys smoked a cigarette– laissez-faire and as an afterthought to anything else going on. Rehearsed until it became instinct, flew like a bird or an angel or maybe just a man with a lot less inhibitions than he’d prefer polite company to know. John had been bored by him, at first, too peachy and pompous and buttoned up; allergic to fun and John’s good cheer in equal measure. Until John had seen him fly, begrudging to give up the left seat until he realized that Gale had something with the beast that John could never have. Gale behind the yoke was a savant, a god. Sometimes John thought it a science, other times an art. Maybe Gale had just found the perfect middle ground between both; flew a plane like he’d never heard of gravity.
Even his belly-up landing in Algeria had been as tender and graceful as laying a baby down on a pillow.
“ –happened?” Gale murmurs, vowels curved wth an accent made strong and loose by the sedatives running through his veins.
His face was red, scraped up like they had on posters, doing everything but ruin the prettiness of it. John had never before seen a man wear a black eye well.
John sets his paper down, beating the two nurses who rush forward to rest a palm carefully on Gale’s chest. Preventing him from sitting up. “Stay put for a sec for me, would you, Buck? Came up on the ground a little too fast.” Gale fights back against him, feeble as the bird that had once crashed through his mother's kitchen window; wings fluttering and weak, neck broken, and dark eyes beady with pain. It had died before John could think about putting it out of its misery. Gale’s eyes were blown, misty and confused, lashes stuck together. John remembers them pulling his doll-jointed body from the belly of the ship.”Had to take off the nose before we could get you out.”
Gale’s eyes flicker back and forth, taking in the room, the nurses still hovering, John’s face. “My–”
“Boys are fine,” John promises, “everybody walked away. DeMarco’s gonna need a sling for a while, but he’s already back in the barracks.”
Gale’s throat bobs. Swallowing dryly over and over. John can see the wet shine in them, exhaustion giving way to memory. John rubs his palm up and down slowly over Gale’s chest, the wrapped ribs where the yoke had slammed into them and cracked his sternum, light over the tight bandages. The nurses were still hovering. John can’t touch him any more than this.
“Crumpled up that old bird like a tin can, Buck,” he says quietly. “Doc says you cracked your pelvis right in two. Says you’re lucky even still.”
“Lucky,” Gale laughs, voice crackling.
one thing true about Gale is that he's never cut out to be a housewife
On the first day of his winter break, Gale wakes before dawn.
The house is quiet, John still asleep, and Gale moves through the kitchen without making too much noise. He thinks about telling John his plan but decides against it. For all he knows he might fail to make anything edible.
Gale had received more recipes than Elaine promised him. He recognized sausage hash among them and doubted he could make anything that tasted near Marge’s version. The recipe looks simple enough on paper, but he quickly discovers he has no idea what constitutes the proper size for diced potatoes, or how to achieve that elusive golden brown status. The smell of charred starch fills the kitchen soon as he burns the first batch. He turns the heat down, attempting the second batch with more patience, only for a careless angle of the knife to make a potato roll the wrong way under his palm, and the blade catches the side of his finger.
“Christ,” he curses, more exasperated than hurt. Years of training to handle a knife against the enemy, and he can't even cut a potato straight. He runs the cut under the tap, wraps it in a dish towel, and presses down, willing the bleeding to stop before John wakes up. Then he goes back to the stove one-handed, awkward and stubborn, determined to finish what he started.
By the time John's footsteps sound on the stairs, the potatoes are mostly golden, if a little irregular. He appears in the doorway mid-knot on his tie, then stops, taking in the pan of hash and the small disaster area that used to be the kitchen.
He moves to the stove, peering at the hash with too much interest. “You made this?”
“Not sure it turned out right,” Gale says, suddenly very aware of the mess he's made. “You don’t gotta eat it.”
“Are you kidding? This smells incredible, Buck. When’d you learn to cook?”
“I didn't. I'm winging it.”
Looking into the pan makes Gale sweat. His left hand comes up to dab at his forehead, and he forgets the thin line of red welling up along the cut—until John catches sight of it.
“Hey.” John's voice changes, all the teasing dropping out of it at once. He catches Gale's wrist before Gale can pull it away. “What'd you do to yourself?”
“It's nothin’.” Gale tries to tug his hand back, mortified, but John's grip is firm. “Knife slipped.”
“Doesn't look like nothing.”
Gale was ready to say something in return. The cut is not even a quarter inch. They’ve both seen much worse. But John is turning the finger toward the light, inspecting it with the focus they would’ve reserved for compound fracture or gangrene. And before Gale can tell him to leave it, John brings the finger to his mouth and closes his lips around it.
A small noise escapes from Gale’s throat, the rest of his breath caught somewhere between his ribs. His body goes flush at that single gesture, then is locked up and pliant at the same time. Something velvet warm presses lightly against the cut, and Gale loses control of the tremor in his hand. John has to feel it in his mouth. He doesn’t let go. His tongue presses harder as he sucks around the tip of Gale’s finger. It doesn’t even feel like part of Gale's body anymore, just flesh disappearing in plump, pink red; only, it's all he can still feel, the part of him inside another man.
It feels wrong to keep looking. Gale can’t look away.
looking. at you
.
